


Morphine

by howterrifying



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform, genderswap Sherlolly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 09:34:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9541709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howterrifying/pseuds/howterrifying
Summary: A genderswap Sherlolly one-shot, prompt fill. Morgan Hooper is home after another tiring, late night of work at the morgue, only to be thrust into another medical emergency courtesy of the famous consulting detective, Samantha Holmes, who has gotten herself into a fix and will need something to control the pain.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was a real challenge because it's my first gender-swap story _ever_! That said, I enjoyed subtlety incorporating elements of my own personal gender identity into one of the characters. Blink and you'll miss it haha. As I wrote the characters, I enjoyed coming up with their new personalities and identities even though they were also still the same 'Sherlock' and 'Molly'. Like I said, a real challenge to write but I quite enjoyed the challenge. If you've given this story a chance, thank you! xx  
> 
> 
> This story was written as a prompt fill on tumbler for the following prompt:    
>  _I was wondering if you could write a genderbender sherlolly… where Mr Hooper confesses his love to Miss Holmes_

**Morphine**  


It had been a long night at the morgue and Morgan Hooper was at the brink of exhaustion. After taking too long fumbling with his keys, he managed to let himself into his own flat and collapsed onto the sofa.  
  
“God, it’s almost _three_ ,” said Morgan, dropping his head back in exhaustion.  
  
Morgan’s heavy eyelids were just about to fall like curtains at the end of a play when he noticed an extra coat that was not his, hanging off one of the hooks behind his front door.  
  
“What have you come here for this time?” muttered the pathologist as he peeled himself off the sofa and marched straight to the bathroom. Morgan knew exactly whose coat it was that hung behind the door, and that its owner had probably broken into his flat and was using his bath this very moment. To his surprise, however, the bathroom door was open and the lights were off. There was nobody inside.  
  
“In here.”  
  
The voice was weak and alarm bells instantly went off in Morgan’s head. The voice had come from inside his kitchen and Morgan hated that his exhaustion had caused him to completely miss the crouched heap in the dim light.  
  
“Sam…oh god—” he gasped softly, turning the kitchen lights on before moving to kneel beside her.  
  
Samantha Holmes, London’s—no, _England’s_ finest consulting detective lay on her side on Morgan’s kitchen floor, bleeding profusely whilst clutching onto a dagger she must have acquired from wherever it was that she had gotten hurt.  
  
“Can you get up?” asked Morgan calmly, trying not to let Samantha’s ragged breaths distress him.  
“No, obviously not,” she replied between clenched teeth. “But I’ll try again if you’ll help me.”  
  
After dragging a dining chair into the kitchen, Morgan managed to very carefully get Samantha up on her feet and settled her into her seat. He then rushed to get his medical kit, scrubbed his hands clean and snapped on a pair of surgical gloves.  
  
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he said to the detective whose breathing was frighteningly irregular.  
“I got— shot,” Samantha said between pained gasps, “And I wasn’t sure— when your shift would be up so— I tried to take the bullet out myself. Had to— sterilise the dagger in your kitch—”  
“I’m not even going to ask _how_ you ended up with a…dagger,” Morgan interrupted frustratedly, “Why didn’t you call your sister?”  
“I’d die first from her arduous sermons…” muttered Samantha, “Besides, she’s got a country to run.”  
  
Morgan sighed and, for a moment, was too angry to address the mangled bullet wound that had punctured Samantha’s arm.  
  
“You’re supposed to be _dead_ , Samantha Holmes, for a plan _you_ had concocted with your sister,” Morgan whispered angrily, “So stick to the plan and stop running around getting yourself shot.”  
“Ah, but I—” Samantha paused to grimace as the wound continued to hurt, “I have— _you_.”  
  
Morgan ignored her words and, without batting an eyelid, proceeded to unbutton Samantha’s blouse just enough to expose her left shoulder. He then opened his medical toolkit and began to prepare for the mini-surgery he would have to perform. Samantha knew to be quiet when Morgan was working and so stayed as still as she could, trying very hard to display her discomfort as non-verbally as possible.  
  
“The bullet’s out,” said Morgan at last, “You were about half a centimetre off when you tried to get it out.”  
  
There came a sharp clang as Morgan tossed the blood and flesh-coated bullet onto a small baking tray.  
  
“Doesn’t look too bad now,” Morgan continued, “I should be able to stitch you up here.”  
  
It took another hour or so but Morgan worked efficiently and was brilliant with his hands. By the time he was done, Samantha, for all intents and purposes, looked good as new. The bullet and subsequent knife wound had been cleaned thoroughly and sutured up perfectly. Morgan had bandaged the area, carefully wrapping top of her left arm with all the spare bandages he could find in his flat.  
  
“I’ll give you a small shot of morphine if you nee—” Morgan began.  
“No. No morphine, thank you…” Samantha replied immediately.  
  
Samantha tried getting up, but sank back into her seat. She was still slightly out of breath from the pain and from the exhaustion of having been on the run all night, but slowly, she was settling down.  
  
“I can give you a safe amount, Sam,” Morgan remarked, concerned, “There’s pain written all over your face.”  
“It’s— fine. I just need a lie down— Might even have a go at sleep,” the detective remarked, managing a smirk.  
“Right, let’s get you to bed then,” said Morgan.  
  
By their combined efforts, Morgan managed to support Samantha as she staggered her way down the corridor that led to Morgan’s bedroom. Once she was seated on the bed, Samantha managed to shrug off her bloodstained shirt that she had ended up unbuttoning fully because it had simply gotten too warm.  
  
“I don’t know how you do it, but those binders _really_ don’t look very comfortable,” said Morgan, gesturing to the tight, black fabric that clung like a second skin around Samantha’s chest.  
“I’ve told you before, they’re good for when I’m on the run, which I am, in a way,” Samantha remarked casually, relishing the cool night air on her shirtless torso, “And well, I just _like_ them.”  
“Well, if you need something to sleep in, I’ve a spare t-shirt if you want—”  
“No, no,” Samantha replied, shaking her head, “This— is fine.”  
  
With much effort and a huge grimace on her face, Samantha adjusted herself and got herself into bed, sinking gratefully under Morgan’s sheets.  
  
“Anything else you need?” asked Morgan, leaning against the doorframe to his room.  
“I’m fine for now,” Samantha replied, starting to feel the first waves of fatigue hit her at last. “I plan to be out of here by morning.”  
“All right, if that’s what you want,” Morgan said, turning to leave the room, “Goodnight then.”  
“Where are you going?” asked Samantha, getting up with a start only to regret it instantly as a sharp pain shot through her..  
“To sleep?” Morgan answered, raising a puzzled eyebrow.  
“Isn’t this your bed?”  
“Yes, but you’re in it.”  
“Does it matter that I’m in it? Is there not a whole other side you could use?”  
  
Morgan laughed as he folded his arms and leaned against the doorway, staring at the injured detective who lay in his bed.  
  
“Are you suggesting we share a bed, Ms Holmes?” he asked, eyeing her.  
“It’s just— I had assumed that’s what people did, sharing a bed together,” replied the detective, whom Morgan was now suspecting to have maybe gotten hit on the head.  
“People?” asked Morgan with a laugh, “What people?”  
“People like _you,_ ” continued Samantha, “With people like _me.”_  
  
Morgan could not help but chuckle softly again. He walked over to where Samantha was lying and sat beside her on the bed.   
  
“People like me?” asked Morgan, smiling gently at Samantha.  
“Yes—”  
“People like me,” he repeated, “Who love you?”  
  
Samantha’s eyes widened, surprised to hear the words Morgan had said.  
  
“You act like I’ve just punched you in the face,” Morgan whispered.  
“It feels akin to it,” Samantha answered quietly, her eyes blinking rapidly.  
“Well, brace yourself.”  
  
Morgan leaned forward and very gently kissed Samantha on the cheek, igniting a flush from her neck all the way to her cheekbones.  
  
“What is this…” muttered Samantha, “I’ve gone _numb_.”  
“Good. Perhaps you’ll sleep better now,” said Morgan with a laugh.  
“Wait—”  
“Yes?”  
  
Morgan stayed put, waiting for what Samantha had to say. Except, she had not intended to say anything. Just as he had done moments before, Samantha moved to kiss the pathologist on the cheek, silently processing the sensation of his skin on her lips.  
  
“It’s worse now,” muttered Samantha, pulling back and staring at Morgan, almost horrified.  
  
Her expression amused Morgan as he let out a hearty chuckle and shook his head. It was just like her to be so taken aback by what was one of the simplest, most universal expressions of affection.  
  
“Still numb?” asked Morgan, amused at Samantha’s continued stunned expression.  
“Remind me next time, will you?” Samantha remarked at last.  
“Of what?”  
“That the next time I’m hurt and find myself at your flat,” said the detective, attempting to sink back under the covers, “You are to administer _this_ , and not morphine.”  


**END**


End file.
